But we’ve also been collaborating all this time on another idea.
In blistering Nebraska, it was America’s Independence Day.
It was three quarters of a mile west of my apartment. ” he shouted as we turned to enter his family’s compound down an opposing street. Out of nowhere, a yellow Mustang rambled around the corner and headed straight for us. ” I cried out as I swerved to avoid the oncoming car. The death of my best friend made me sullen, bitter, and inconsolable. There were so many unscrupulous people around, but God chose to take George.
As the three of us rode noisily past plain suburban houses on our bicycles, mostly due to the rickety nature of our mechanical companions, fireworks exploded loudly in the clear sky behind us. I heard the skidding of tires and a loud dinging sound. People were screaming and running towards where the car had stopped. When I came to, I saw George’s mother holding a bloody, limp body, weeping hysterically. I felt like a massive wind had lifted me up; I was swimming in the air. When I regained consciousness again, I was in my bed. Life was never going to be the same again without him.
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We saw each other almost daily, involving ourselves in our selfsame talent: soccer.
We both enjoyed defending against oncoming strikers—standing against the opposition with a tough tooth.
Monday was a very good day – an historic day, I should add.
In the same way as the meeting between Livingstone and Stanley, Lennon and Mc Cartney, Lewis and Clark – okay, maybe I’m stretching this a bit here, but bear with me…